


Jeeves and the Mustache

by Franzbibliothek



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Drag Ball, M/M, Menacing Mustaches, New York City, cross dressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-27
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2019-03-24 14:29:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13813116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Franzbibliothek/pseuds/Franzbibliothek
Summary: “It wasn't my fault! I wasn't in my right mind! It was that cursed mustache!” He cried.“Melchett has a mustache?” I asked.“Yes, it sort of sticks out in the middle of his face, so you can't help but stare at it, and then you find yourself agreeing to all manner of things. It's a dirty trick— thank you, Jeeves— ” Jeeves handed him another glass of something restorative. “I tell you!”I found myself avoiding my man’s eye. I have in my time, nurtured a soup strainer of my own. From my reading I knew something of the potential dangers of pocket watches, but never had I heard of mustaches being used for so ill a purpose.





	1. Part I

There are few greater pleasures in life, I think, than singing in the bath. It has always seemed to me the only reasonable locale to belt out the latest show number, considering the fact that rubber ducks and bars of soap have never even felt the urge to fling vegetable matter, fermented or otherwise. 

“You're the Nile, you're the Tower of Pisa. You're the smile on the Mona Lisa… Jeeves, I don't know how they do it.” 

Jeeves, who is rather a Bendel bonnet and Shakespeare sonnet in form of valet, came into the bathroom with fresh towels. “Who, sir?”

“These songwriters, Jeeves. Some content themselves with drippy rhymes of moon, gloom, her old perfume. Then, every once in awhile, something zippy like this comes along, and I don't know how they think of it: rhyming not only Tower of Pisa, with the Mona Lisa, but also the Nile with smile? It's inspired!” 

“It would appear, in this regard, the librettist took the next mile, sir.” Jeeves agreed after leaving the towels in a way that suggested the young master had let himself prune long enough. 

I bopped out of the basin, drying myself until Jeeves came back in to bung me into the outer crust. 

“What sort of day is it?” I asked.

“A warm day for late September by the standards of the Northeast American climate, I am lead to understand. The possibility of rain is a remote one.” Jeeves said, handing me a gasper as I entered the living room of my New York flat.

“So, the larks on their wings and the snails on their thorns, I take it?” 

“The birds are of a migratory nature, but otherwise, as you say.” 

Jeeves bustled about a bit in our living space, straightening a couch cushion, moving my latest Rex West novel from the sofa to the little table by my favorite chair. 

The sunlight practically galloped through the east facing window, and I think I could hear just the barest snatch of someone playing jazz in the apartment below. All this rather echoed in the freshly scrubbed soul, and considering the circs, how could a man be kept from singing?

A knock came on the door. Jeeves opened it, but was given no opportunity to announce who it was before earth’s lamentations forced his way in. 

Standing there, glasses askew, lip quivering enough to arm an army of English bowmen, was Curtis Calliweigh.

“Oh, Bertie, I'm ruined! The Epicurean Revel won't print another issue! This is the end!” He wailed, besetting himself upon the Wooster corpus.

Now, Curtis Calliweigh was one of those artistic jack-of-all-trades birds who spends most of his time putting together avant-garde publications under the nom de plume, Velvet Curtains. 

Of course, I've never read any of Curly’s stuff myself. I'm more of a chap for a story where the curtain falls and captures the criminal at the end. Though Jeeves assures me, as he properly disposes of the occasional issue, that they're most tantalizingly rotten. 

“Tell me all.” I said, detaching the desperate creature from my person, laying him on the couch and handing him my handkerchief. He splayed out, his eyes landing wildly on Jeeves.

Jeeves usually shimmered away when I was entertaining the quality, but I had motioned for him to stay. The violence with which Curly had thrown himself at me, betrayed to my senses, sharpened as they were on my diet of who-dun-its, that not all was well with this Curly.

“This is a highly private matter.” He said.

“And Jeeves is a highly discreet valet. In fact, his trustworthiness knows no height.” I assured. 

“Beware of tall men, Bertie. They’ll do you no good.” Curly blew into my handkerchief. “I'm ruined.”

I have previously given a slight sketch of the room re: the sofa, chair, and window. The astute reader, if astute is the word I'm looking for, might have noticed no mention of a mantlepiece. That is because there was not one, and I found myself at this moment glad for it. 

There was a twitching in Curly's fingers that suggested a certain longing for an Infant Samuel at Prayer, but might have found satisfaction in a Staffordshire shepherdess and lamb. Americans claim a virtue in not being very particular in these matters. 

My handkerchief instead was to be the casualty of Curly's distress. I, much as Field Marshal Haig must have at the Somme, tried to keep my upper lip stiff as I witnessed the senseless brutality.

“Now, my dear Curly, I take violence to my handkerchiefs lightly, but can I ask why you're ruined?” 

He writhed, gnashing teeth and handkerchief once more before sitting up. 

“I am being blackmailed, Bertie.” 

I felt my eyebrows raise and even a traitorous 'indeed?’ bubbled to the Wooster lips, which I swallowed back. A fellow in dire circs wanting his chums to circle round, hardly want to be 'indeed-ed’ at their most vulnerable. 

“I had an understanding with a photographer, which I recently ended.”

Curly put his face in his hands. “Oh, Bertie, I feel so stupid! I never should have agreed to let him take those pictures!” 

I motioned to Jeeves to pour a brandy and s., easy on the s., only to find he was already pressing a glass into Curly's hand. 

“I take it... they are of a delicate nature?” 

“Delicate! Oh, delicate indeed! All the delicacy of a fleecy coat and velvety nose!” He shivered and finished the brandy and s. in a gulp. “I thought I had them all destroyed: the one with the ducklings and the one with the puppies, but not the one with the lamb. No, that one he kept, and now I'm ruined.” 

“Lamb?” 

“Don't speak the beast’s name!” He looked forlornly at his empty glass. “Melchett, the photographer, he takes pictures of dimpled tots with kittens that are put on cards with Bible quotations.”

“'He lays me out in green pastures’, eh?” I offered, for I had won the Scripture Knowledge prize at school in my youthful years.

“Worse! ‘Let the little children come to me’.”

My cheeks grew pale. “Oh Lord.”

“I know, Jesus Christ!” He shook a regretful head, much as David must have after Nathan had been rather stern to him on the matter of pinching other men’s ewe lambs. “Though our understanding was mutually beneficial for a time, I knew it was not long for this world. But now he's told me that if I don't publish some of his work in the Epicurean Revel, he'll start showing the picture of me with lambykins to all and sundry.” 

“And you can't slip the pictures in the back with the ad papers?” I asked, editor chums have informed me it was the done thing when the boss’s niece suddenly fancies herself a poetess in the style of Sappho.  

“The Epicurean Revel doesn't have ad papers, every issue is a coherent artistic work! If I just slip the photos in as you suggest, my readers will never trust me again. But if everyone were to see that picture of me…” 

“It's bad I take it?”

“He dressed me as an Arabian shepherd coddling the lost lamb to my bosom.” 

I gave a low whistle of sympathy at that. One could be an artist who thumbed their nose at decency and good taste or one could have pictures of yourself in Arabian costume getting matey with Mary's fleeciest, but both could not be done. 

“It wasn't my fault! I wasn't in my right mind! It was that cursed mustache!” He cried. 

“Melchett has a mustache?” I asked.

“Yes, it sort of sticks out in the middle of his face, so you can't help but stare at it, and then you find yourself agreeing to all manner of things. It's a dirty trick— thank you, Jeeves— ” Jeeves handed him another glass of something restorative. “I tell you!” 

I found myself avoiding my man’s eye. I have in my time, nurtured a soup strainer of my own. From my reading I knew something of the potential dangers of pocket watches, but never had I heard of mustaches being used for so ill a purpose.

“Are you quite sure that the simple hairiness on an upper lip might be used to such nefarious ends?” 

“Have you noticed not, young Bertie, how villains are known to stroke their bristles when at their absolute worst?”

It was with something like penance I asked, “Well, old egg, is there anything I can do to help?” 

He wiped at his eyes and sat up quite straight, “I am glad to see your noble reputation was not exaggerated, dear Bertie. I'm going to need the photograph stolen.” 

“Now, Curly, old fellow!” it is one thing to be urged into a life of crime by an aged relative that saved you from choking on a rubber blanket as a tender youth, but it seemed a bit much coming from a recently-made chum. 

“Don't give me that look, Bertie. It's me in the photograph, so the thing is practically mine by law already.” 

“I suppose, I'll just tell that to the policeman catching me sneaking out of this Melchett's flat.”

“Bertie, you really thought I was asking you to take it from his apartment? The very thought! I know for a fact he keeps it in the inner pocket of his jacket at all times.” 

“Oh, does he? Do you expect me to corner him in an alley and demand he stand and deliver?” I scorned and started to motion for Jeeves to make me a brandy and s. but he was already pressing a glass into my hand.

“What's all this fuss about Bertie? With all the stories you've told, I thought you were an old hand at the business.”

“Old hand? You make me sound like a hardened criminal!”

“Not at all, you struck me as more the gentleman thief type.” Curly said. 

“Well, well, well what?” I said and meant it to sting. Perhaps this last of the Wooster's had a less stringent view on legality than those magistrates that look down at you through their pince nezes would like, but I was no criminal hireling to be bid. 

Curly who could see that this chump was not to be meekly brought to slaughter, grew red in the face. “Bertie, if you don't help me, I'll never provide you with another copy of the Epicurean Revel for as long as we both shall live!”

Now, as I've related before, I have never so much as glanced through the Epicurean Revel to see if there were any funny bits. However, this put me in something of a paradox of the less than ingenious sort. 

To admit that this threat was no great blow, might hurt to poor boy’s sensitive feelings. A Wooster couldn't go around destroying the local artist's confidence. In his autobiography I might get a mention as the old miser who threw the creative genius to the ground and nearly made him give it all up. 

However, to agree to his demands might put me in the wrong way with the local authorities who took a rather rigid approach to the whole 'Thou shalt not steal’ gag. There was only one solution. 

“Perhaps Jeeves might be able to help.” I said. 

Curly turned and gave Jeeves one of those cataloging looks silver collectors might give a spoon to determine if it was a Modern Dutch or not. 

“Very nice, of course. I can definitely see the appeal, but I'm afraid that you're the only one who will really do. His dimensions are all wrong.” 

“What do you mean?” I asked, not a little aghast. While one might assume some pride in being the preferred object, but for someone to observe such a paragon as Jeeves and find him wanting is surely something along the heretical line. 

“Don't take it personally, it's just he’s built along the strong broad oak type, perfect for your purposes I'm sure, but for my plan I need something a bit more of the tender birch persuasion. Don't be distressed, Bertie. Here.” Curly handed me my handkerchief.

“Wipe your face, I'll have need of it. The plan is child's play to someone of your experience. Tonight is none other than the Dionysus Ball at Webster Hall. Melchett never misses it. All you need is to toss a bit of your fascination in his direction. Once you have him sufficiently under your spell, tell him you’re cold, and when he offers his jacket, just nab the photograph while he's distracted.” 

After laying it all out the young Napoleon leaned back as if to await the applause.

“That is your plan?” I asked. 

“What's wrong with it?”

“My dear child, there seems to be a number of gaps. First of all, it seems you have gotten the impression I'm some sort of playboy that attracts hearts like a butterfly wearing soiled gloves, but this Wooster is nothing of the sort. Secondly, one wonders that this Melchett would offer his jacket when I would be wearing one of my own.” 

“Oh, I see, I've neglected to mention that at the time you'd be wearing a ball gown.” Curly said.

“Yes, young Curly, you did neglect to mention that. But this also raises a number of other queries like: why would I be wearing a ball gown to this party and where would I even find a ball gown at this hour?” I felt I rather had Curly pinned there, unless he also had a pumpkin coach awaiting me outside. 

“Ball gowns are the done thing at Dionysus, why it would be stranger for you to arrive without rather than within one. As for where we can get you kitted in such short notice, I have a few friends in the Village who will have just the thing for you. Melchett has a terrible weakness for a lovely thing in a gown and with their skill, your willowy figure will turn heads.”

A lesser man might have his own head turned by all this talk of his willowy figure. However, niggling reservations remained.

“So, the whole of your plan is that you dress me up like a pretty piece of meat, have me intercept this Melchett, drawing him in with my wiles, like a regular femme fatale, and at the right moment claim to be cold and arouse his gentlemanly feeling enough to lend me his jacket, from which I shall slip unnoticed this photograph of your indiscretion.” 

“Yes, when you put it like that, there's no way for it to fail.” Curly said, clasping his hands together.

I was pleased to see something like hope on my chum's face, but not without a keen awareness of the unfortunate posish it put me in. 

See, all this business of frocks and attending the local saturnalia, sounded like a good wheeze, but the thievery business did dim the shine a bit. It was also with no little dread did I contemplate finding myself face to nose with the hazardous mustache. 

I am a man of iron will, but I still recall with an unrepressed shudder the effect Upjohn’s bare upper lip had upon the Wooster spine. One can hardly wonder how I might fare against this well-documented menace. 

My eyes turned, as they often did in times of strain, to my man, who had listened to all.

“What do you make of it, Jeeves?” I asked.

“If I may say, it's a most bold undertaking.” 

“Have you no alternative gambit to suggest?”

“I'm afraid, sir, that as I am unable to study this Melchett's individual psychology, that we must trust in Mr Calliweigh’s judgement of the matter. No other way forward suggests itself to me at the moment.” 

“And you don't think a kipper or two might do the trick?” 

“I'm afraid you ate the last of our supply for breakfast.” Jeeves said.

I hung my head, it was then by my own peckish petard that I was to be hoisted. 

“So, are we all straight?” Curly asked, glancing at his wrist-watch. “They are going to need you in their clutches as soon as possible if we're going to get you ready for tonight.”

It was with the darkness starting to gather round that I gave a shaky, “Right ho.”  
  


* * *

  
The apartment building we arrived at was not a remarkable one for Greenwich Village, but what was remarkable was the particular shade of violet of one exiting tenant's tie. I caught something of Jeeves’s expression as it passed. My man is above such things as abject expressions horror, but he was slightly amphibian about the gills. 

We ascended the staircases, arriving at the anticipated number. Curly knocked on the door, before pulling his hand back to glance at his wrist-watch once more. 

The door opened to reveal a tall beazel. Upon seeing Curly she cried, “My dear boy!” Before grabbing both his shoulders. 

Gentleman hunters of my acquaintance have described to me how leopards on the Safari might drag their fresh kill into a tree to devour at leisure, it was so that Curly was conveyed into the apartment.

Jeeves and I shared a look before following after. It is not  _ preux chevalier _ to leave a chum, even one who is asking you to steal photographs of lambs, to be devoured by leopards. 

“To the dark tower, eh, Jeeves?” I asked.

“That remains to be seen, sir.” Jeeves said and we entered the lair. 

My first impression of this leopard’s abode was favorable, lacking as it did much in the way of bones, skulls or other related paraphernalia. Though it is possible that they were covered up by the excess of fabrics and garments that dressed every surface. 

Curly stood in the center of this clothing charybdis with the leopard, chewing the fat of some helpless antelope, no doubt, before realizing Jeeves and I were present. 

“Oh, we left you on the stoop, didn't we?” He observed, then motioned towards us with a flourish. “Klothilde, my own, these two gentlemen are Mr Wooster and Mr Jeeves. Mr Wooster is to be my savior, but only if you will grant us the bounty of your art.”

I was something close to pipped at being left on the doorstep like a long-toothed button salesman and my returning of the pleasantries was somewhere on the stuffier side. My ‘what ho’, lacked something of my usual pep.

The unlikely named Klothilde, undaunted, wrapped me in her arms as if I were the prodigal son popping by.

“It's a pleasure! When I saw Curly, I'm afraid I lost myself. We just got the new issue of Epicurean Revel.”

“A real corker, right?”

“Oh, melodious garbage. I devoured it completely. But where’s my manners? Sit, sit, sit, sit, sit, sit!” With a sweep of an arm that might have felled a sickly warthog, Klothilde pushed over a pile of garments, with which the couch had before been camouflaging itself. “Do you want tea? Coffee?”

Jeeves and I were forced to take a tentative seat. I had some concern the piece of furniture, after such an abrupt discovery, might consider bolting, but it held its ground. Klothilde was quite out of sight by this point, calling out, “Curly, get the other one!” 

Curly biffed off at the missive, leaving Jeeves and I alone to share another look. With my look I hoped to convey something of my overwhelmedness and my hope that this Klothilde wasn't the type to put an oppressive amount of cream and sugar in another fellow's tea without asking. 

Jeeves, with his right eyebrow, seemed to be conveying some sense of concern about our prospects. His left meanwhile betrayed something as close to amusement as the feudal spirit allowed him to express. Either that, or his breakfast hadn't agreed with the Jeevesian insides. The left eyebrow is the tricky one I've found. 

Before I could query which interpretation was closer to the truth, Klothilde burst forth from the kitchenette, bearing a respectable tea tray. 

She, with the swipe of a single leg, was able to send a herd of unsuspecting garments running. Underneath them revealed a table for her to set down the tray. The display was a testament to what might be accomplished if you kept up with those Swedish exercises. 

“Would you like cream or sugar?” She asked. I gave my preferences, which upon taste I could verify that Klothilde had followed admirably. At once I felt entirely better about the whole business.

If one can judge a leopard by its spots, I felt this one could be trusted.

It was during this moment that a slight man, perhaps even a petite man, burst from another room, Curly hot on his heels. His mouth gaped a bit looking from Klothilde, to Jeeves and I before landing at last on Curly, his eyes hunted. 

“You’ve heard the tale, haven't you, Bob?” Klothilde said. “As if I hadn't warned him against that walrus and his mustache a thousand times. Oh, darling, this is Mr Jeeves and Mr Wooster.” 

I waved a bit and this Bob bird bobbed his head at us, but said nothing. 

Bob seemed to be one of those turtle-y  fellows who spoke just as often as a turtle might speak, which is not at all. 

Curly grunted and stepped forward into center stage. “Dearest Klothilde, you may peck me to death at a later date. But what I need to know is if you can turn this crow into a swan before Dionysus starts?” He tapped his wrist-watch to emphasize this time theme. 

If my mouth hadn't been full of Klothilde's adequate tea I might have cried out against this disparagement. It is true that my appearance often marks little notice. This, however, hardly made one a crow. 

A sparrow, perhaps, I could even allow for a pigeon, which similarly to me has ancestors with a history of notable service that must be accounted for, but not a crow. 

Before I could properly puff up and cry foul, Klothilde and Bob began to circle around the Wooster corpus. It felt unjust to compare them to vultures after I had just defended myself against being designated a crow. 

Nonetheless there was something undoubtedly hungry in their expressions. To Klothilde I must have seemed to be a half-deaf Zebra whose Doctor had been forceful on the need for bed rest. To Bob I must have appeared as a sumptuous head of lettuce gone lame. 

“Good figure, for sure, willowy, won't need much padding… What about that autumn gown from last year. We still have the gourd tiara. It would mostly just need a bit of hemming.” Klothilde said.

Bob very firmly shook his head and motioned to a peach-colored frock hanging from a curtain rod.

Klothilde snorted, “Just say you want him to go in like a trussed up ham and be done with it! What about the mauve?” 

Bob’s eyes nearly popping out of his head, said all that needed to be said about the mauve. 

This crosstalk routine went on, each rejecting with passion the chartreuse silk, the tangerine velvet, the salmon santeen, and the puce. 

They looked rather close to going Assyrian on each other over the puce, when a cough like a sheep on a green, cloud-covered hillside captured their attention. “Pardon me, but I have always found dark blue to be one of Mr Wooster’s best colors.” Jeeves said. 

Two pairs of eyes turned to me, as if I were a bush curiously on fire. 

“The blue tulle. The blue tulle!” Klothilde breathed in mystic ecstasy.    
  
"Fetch me that garment, the gown I showed thee once: The sight of it on waking eyelids laid will make or man or woman madly dote upon the next live creature that it wears. Fetch me this gown: and be thou here again ere the stressed tailor can stitch a seam." Bob said.

“I’ll get the girdle too!” Klothilde cried before rushing to another room.

Bob had me stood up and peeled out of my outer crust in a moment. Klothilde came back holding the relic aloft.

She paused. “He’s bathed of course?” She asked, and I think she would have demanded a look at my teeth if I hadn't seemed ready to kick.

I nodded and in a moment the blue tulle was being pulled over the Wooster onion. 

I looked down once it was properly fastened. It was quite lovely, the color was becoming, but between the lack of shoulders and the low neckline, more Wooster skin was on display than I was accustomed. 

“Don't you think the necklines a touch low?” I asked as the rest of the company cooed over the affect. Even Jeeves seemed to have something close to approval in his eyes. 

“Don't start monkeying about your modesty. We have some alterations to make.” Klothilde said as she started pulling here and there, pins and chalk suddenly about her person.

Bob had somehow summoned a sewing machine from some hidden crevice and was already busy at work.

So I stood about as a living marionette, observing with some wonder as Jeeves flung himself eagerly into the breach alongside these two.

Readers might be wondering as to Jeeves’s sanguine attitude towards these bohemians’s den. After all, I have been faithful in recounting Jeeves’s hidebound and fastidious attention to the sartorial. On occasion, faced with breaches of this science, Jeeves, normally as cool a cucumber as they come, has been known to momentarily give pause. This being as grave and terrible a reaction from Jeeves as I have ever known.

However, surrounded by an environment of wild garments in wild abandon, he seemed as unconcerned as Lady Macbeth was about her laundry bill. 

While I'm a chump of the first order, if I might muse on the psychology of the individual for a moment then I might come to this conclusion:

One might naturally find paint splattered all over the place distasteful. If one were to see someone with paint splattered on them, it might try your soul a bit, especially if you happen to have as deep a soul as Jeeves does. But if one were to arrive in the rooms of a Monet, or maybe it's Manet, I never get it right, and if you didn't see a bit of the wet stuff brightening up the corners a bit, you might be concerned that this fellow wasn't about his business. 

I suppose Jeeves must have taken a look at Klothilde and Bob and sensed that these persons of Greenwich Village were no mean artisans, but artists. 

“Do you think we should shorten the shoulders? That would heighten the neckline a little.” Klothilde asked.

“I fear that would ruin the lay of the bodice.” Jeeves said. 

Bob made a sound over the hum of the sewing machine that marked his assent with Jeeves observation. 

I am no shy flower, unwise in the ways of fashion. I even wrote an article for my Aunt Dahlia’s magazine Milady's Boudoir about What the Well-dressed Man is Wearing. True, Jeeves and I might have crossed swords over soft front shirts, but fundamentally my grasp is sound. Now, it seemed Jeeves had no problem with the young master in public wearing nothing more than a soft drape over the chest. 

New York is a changer of souls I've often heard, but I had thought of all people Jeeves would be incorruptible, and would insist on a frock with a collar that would preserve something of the ym's modesty. But, no, he seemed as gung-ho about this blue tulle as the others.

“Oh, don't get your hackles all raised.” Klothilde straightened my posture with a single mighty hand. “There's no need to be shy about your shoulders. Now, if you had ones like Jeeves, you might have something to worry about.” 

“The pins you needed.” Jeeves appeared at her side. The untrained eye might have seen nothing on Jeeves’s map, which was as stuffed frog as could be, but it was clear to me, he knew that an opprobrious remark on his appearance had been made. 

Klothilde looked a bit vermilion around the snout, and quickly added, “Not that you're not fine in your own way, Jeeves, all chiseled features and dark hair, but we'd need to make something entirely from scratch for it to fit you properly.” 

Now, that was an interesting thought, my man out of the morning coat and bowler and in fancy dress. Victorian, I decided, would suit him best. 

This thought helped to occupy me while I stood still and straight, as to make any of my war-like ancestors proud, while I was pricked and pulled and measured. 

Then came the shoes, which were plain black leather things with only a bit of a heel. I tottered a bit, but luckily there were no cabbies with ill-intentioned chariot wheels about, and I was able to master the art with little injury.

They were just starting to talk about wigs, Jeeves had vetoed the feather which I thought would give the whole ensemble a certain _joie de vivre_ , when Curly stood up from the couch where he had ensconced himself with some scones from the tea tray. 

“Well this is coming along, but I'm afraid Jeeves and I must be going. We have our own parts to prepare for.” He announced. 

They parted our company, but not before I observed a firm handshake pass between Jeeves, Klothilde, and Bob as old soldiers now battlesworn together. 

Bob went about finishing the gown alterations as Klothilde saw to my underpinnings that would keep the whole structure from crumbling at an inopportune moment.  

Once she was pleased, the blue tulle was pulled once more over the Wooster onion and belted in place. 

Now came the final bit that my previous experience in amateur theater had taught me to fear. The time had come for the Wooster dial to be painted. To Klothilde's credit she was somewhat gentler in the savaging of my face than those who have done so in the past. She only jabbed me in the eye once, which she assured me was my own fault. 

Bob fastened a short, blonde wig to my head, sans a jolly feather, and at last I was finished. My head was heavy and my feet were unsteady, but neither of these things, for once, had anything to do with a late night at the Drones. 

I looked in the mirror, and seeing it altogether I could spy my distinctive resemblance to a Grecian column and understood why Jeeves had his heart set on this blue tulle. It was just the sort of thing his chum, Marcus Aurelius, would approve of.  

No one would mistake me for a real beazel, except maybe a Bingo before he met the little woman, but the dark blue did suit me.

A knock came on the door and Bob conveyed into the apartment a Jeeves, dressed like a regular gentleman about the town, no morning coat or bowler in sight.

“I say, Jeeves, you're certainly a sight!” I said. He turned towards me.

If I was expecting him to throw himself at my feet, declaring me a tender goddess, I was to be disappointed. After a moment of contemplation, giving the appropriate compliments to my makers, he stepped forward with a 'please allow me, sir’. For close to quarter of an hour, he tugged and adjusted, tightened and loosened, before stepping back with something close to satisfaction in his face. 

I glanced at Bob and Klothilde who watched us with a certain paternal tenderness, looking moments from mangling their handkerchiefs. A sort of warmness came over the Wooster chest, despite the fact it was more bared to the air than it was accustomed. 

I curtsied, or rather attempted, but they nonetheless appreciated the effort. As Jeeves and I took our leave, Klothilde called out:  “Do enjoy yourselves! Mind the wig! And whatever you do, don't look too closely at that old walrus’s mustache!” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, originally I started putting this together because I was surprised by the fact that "Jeeves and Bertie stumble into the gay subcultures of New York of the 1920s/1930s" is not a tidy sub-genre in the fandom. (if it is and I've missed it, please send me links) 
> 
> I used a lot of references, the most jarring was the re-write I did of Oberon's "love-in-idleness" speech, which was supposed to be much longer, but my mangling of it hurt so much I had to shorten it. 
> 
> I have to come clean, from my research it seems larks native to New York State are not migratory, but I liked the line so I kept it. I'm so sorry Jeeves.
> 
> For the curious I imagined Bertie's dress looking like this: http://collections.vam.ac.uk/item/O85666/evening-dress-jean-patou/
> 
> except more along this color: http://collections.vam.ac.uk/item/O85664/evening-dress-chanel/


	2. Part II

As Jeeves and I arrived at Webster Hall, I saw it was all done up in bright, twinkling lights, the marquee was framed with long garlands of ivy, and sounds of general merriment could be heard spilling from the doors. It was a sight for all eyes, sore or otherwise.

There was just one eyesore that detracted from this picture: a policeman was stationed outside the entrance. Let it be known that Currier and Ives prints never included a lurking bluebottle breathing down the necks of those who have donned their gay apparel. 

The officer straightened up as he saw me. It seems they breed these officers to sense those with prior brushes with the law. I prepared for him to bark 'Ho’ at me and shatter my nerves just as I needed most to screw them to the sticky place. 

“Your gown is gorgeous!” He called out in the thick brogue of his home borough.

It was a good thing I was clutching Jeeves's arm and therefore remained upright. I managed a nod at this unexpected admirer before we moved on through the entrance.

Curly had not been speaking false when he said this Dionysus Ball was a big to-do. We were greeted by a merry chap draped in a sheet of white cotton, wearing a crown of greenery. He also made pleased noises about my frock, no doubt nostalgic for the old country.

It was with some envy I observed that many of the attending men were safely encased in voluminous historical costume that left much to the imagination. Sherlock Holmes himself couldn't have deduced whether some of them even had legs or not.

Though there was a subset of bright young things in bits of bright stuff that wouldn't have looked out of place on Ziegfeld’s turf. At least, I comforted myself, the Wooster knees were not to be displayed to all and sundry.

As we made our way into the throng, it seemed the officer’s admiration had been no strange aberration. I am more used to being generally considered a blot, blister or some other blemish on the general face of humanity. Yet, from perfect strangers cries of welcome and wonderment came down upon the unprepared loaf. 

I did my best to return compliments as I was given them. My knowledge in this area being what it was, my offerings were somewhat meager: “Ah, I see you decided on the puce, very good, what.” Still, even seeds such as these fell on the good soil and increased ten-thousand fold. 

“It seems the ruse is working, Jeeves.” I whispered.

“Yes, it seems the other attendees are acting under the assumption you are a young gentleman dressed up like a young lady.”

“I almost feel bad for deceiving them.” I said, adjusting my gown’s neckline. 

“Let me, sir.” My man said, refastening the shoulder clasps, so the neckline laid flatter. 

“I don't think I'll be able to manage the can-can with my dignity in tact in this thing.” I said.

“I'm afraid I cannot recommend anything more vigorous than a waltz, in your current ensemble, sir.” Jeeves said, standing back to survey his handiwork. 

A hand tugged on my elbow.

“You look beautiful, Bertie!” The owner of the hand exclaimed. I turned to accept the praise, only to find myself yelping at the sight before me. 

There is an old adage about Mary being menaced by a certain lamb of her acquaintance. All lies, I now know. If any lamb worth it’s vellum were ever faced with this horrific froth of pink and gold ringlets, completed by a crook with a large bow, it would have have high-tailed it in two shakes. 

I gargled until the creature spoke in Curly's voice, “it's wonderfully horrid isn't Bertie? No one will ever recognize me.”

“What in—” He cut me off with a finger to the lips. 

“No time for it, my little muttonchop, we must get you over to Melchett.” He said.

Jeeves looked on rather calmly as the young master was torn from his side and dragged away as a sheep lead to slaughter.

We cut through the dancing and made our way to the end of the gallery, near the stage. On it crooned a young man in a rather spiffy gown who seemed intent on airing out all the world's woes through the megaphone. This melancholy songbird was certainly a fan of the songwriters’s typical bread and butter. He belted two lines that rhymed 'doom’ and 'gloom’ to impressive effect. 

“There he is!” Curly hissed in my ear, and I followed his pointed hand to a man standing by the stage. 

I took in this Melchett with some interest. He was tall, dark-haired, and in more traditional gentleman evening dress. For a moment, he almost reminded me something of Jeeves. Then this Melchett shifted a bit and I saw the Mustache. 

Now I, as noted elsewhere, in those hazy days of youth had entertained a bit of hair on my own upper lip. Jeeves referred to it as a stain when first he saw it. 

That rather puts a matter in perspective doesn't it? When one’s own Jeeves starts worrying that the young master isn't keeping to the typical cleanliness regiment, well, that's when one knows something must be done with the offending object. I elucidate this tale not only to educate the young and impressionable; may it be said that if my mustache had been a stain then this Melchett's was a mighty splotch of the first order. 

Any moment, it seemed ready to pop off and go seek its fortunes. I understood Curly's predicament. 

“Alright, all you gotta do is go up and charm him.” Curly whispered, and I was pushed, cruelly, forward. I saw no way back and was forced to approach. 

“Hello!” I chirped at this mustachioed Melchett. 

“Hello.” He inclined his head towards me a little, but his eyes remained firmly on the warbler on the stage, who was now moaning ‘noble-heart’ and ‘torn-apart’ with much muster. Every once in a while, Melchett would raise his hand and press it to his chest. It was possible he had spots there and felt self-conscious about it.

The circs seemed a tad hopeless. “Goodbye,” said I.

“Goodbye.” He replied in a well-natured but final way that convinced me that I had done all that could be reasonably expected of me.

I sought out the refreshment table, needing something to revive me after such an ordeal. 

“What was that?” Curly hissed, his bonnet flapping in agitation. I kept my eye on the crook he was waving rather closer to the Wooster dial than I might have considered friendly. There were little silver bells attached to the bow, I realized with some nausea. 

“Now, Curly, old egg, I tried my best to entreat him with the sparkling conversation, but he was unmoved. Unstirred. Untouched. Unfriendly even. If you're not a melodious madrigal, you’re not for Melchett, was my distinct impression.” Curly sagged, and I reached out a succoring hand to his head, but remembering the blonde ringlets at the last moment I altered direction and gave his shoulder a few pats instead. 

“I know a few of my own schemes have gone agely in their time. You’ll come out a sadder, but better person for it. Think on the mice.” 

“The mice?”

“Jeeves tells me that their plans famously go agley too.” I explained, but Curly did not seem to take comfort in this.

Instead his face distorted into the sort of expression shared by the shepherdess who misplaced not one lamb, but rather half the flock. Without another word he marched off to go find them.

I also marched off and found a barman to make me a drink. Without Melchett's mustache hovering over my mind like a black bird of misfortune, I could observe the rest of the party getting into full swing.

By the punch bowl I could see Marie Antoinette and Queen Elizabeth getting matey, no doubt in the interest of national diplomacy. In one of the corners I counted no less than five Greek goddesses playing some sort of game, with what might have been an apple or perhaps a potato. 

My line of sight was disrupted as the fellow in the white cotton and leaves, having found a cadre of nymphs, decided to go about on parade. They threw flowers about and would call out snatches of songs. 

By classical standards it was a mild sort of orgy. There was no tearing interlopers limb from limb, which was a relief, as that always put something of a damper on otherwise corking affairs. 

My enjoyment of the whole thing was only improved by the sight of a noble head that sticks out a bit in the back. He was just finishing the set with an eager thing in lavender. Jeeves’s expression was distinctly taxindermetical, so I felt no unease in calling him away. 

The eager thing in lavender gave me a glance that suggested he would be keen on introducing that whole tearing limb from limb whatsit to the night’s proceedings. This was something I could sympathize with. I imagine I give similar sort of looks every time I am deprived of my guide and philosopher. 

“The whole Melchett matter is done, Jeeves.” I said.

His eyebrow lifted just shy of an eighth of an inch. “You have retrieved the photograph then?” 

“No, that went rather upsy-agley, as they say. It seems if you aren't squawking about souls in anguish and hearts torn asunder, then you aren't Melchett's chickadee.” I said.

“I see, sir.” Jeeves said. 

“Now that's the matter is concluded, I might admit I feel not a little like Cinderella rebuffed by Prince Charming. If Prince Charming had a soup strainer devouring half his face.” 

“That is doubtful, sir.” Jeeves said. 

“Still, I rather had the fairy godmothers do a whole lot of wand wagging for naught.” 

“While regrettable, I don't believe you must go that far, sir. It is my understanding that invitations to the Dionysus Ball can be challenging to get a hold of.” Jeeves said. 

“Is that so?” I said and felt a bit cheered. The night, after all, was still young. “I say Jeeves, your footwork was admirable.” 

“Thank you, sir.” Jeeves said, as full of the feudal spirit as anyone could ask for. 

Before I could start asking whether he heard a waltz, or was it just me, a horror in pink made itself present out of the corner of my eye. 

“Here's Bertie!” He said to his companion, who I saw was none other than Marion Wardour, but dressed to the tens in tails and spats. 

“Marion! I'm glad to see you, old thing!” I said. 

“Not as glad as I am to see you, young Bertie!” She said, and I felt cheered at her cordiality. Circs had somewhat chilled our chumminess after my cousins made her flee the country. “I was asked to help run the music here, but everything is in a state. Poor Eddy was supposed to croon for another quarter of an hour, but says he can't. Apparently his heart is a sinking ship being dragged down into a sounding sea of despair.”

“Yes, I've heard that one, very poetic of course, but can you dance to it?” I said. 

“You see my problem. It's lucky then that Curly told me you were here. If I remember right, your voice is excellent.” She said. 

“A pleasant light baritone.” Jeeves said.

“Ah, so-so at best.” I demurred, if demurred is what I meant. 

“He is reliably called for at least two encores after his performance of ‘The Yeoman’s Wedding Song’.” Jeeves said, in some misplaced fit of loyalty. 

While one always likes to hear one's dearest sing one's praises, I couldn't help but feel that black bird of misfortune starting to get its wind back.

“That's only at village concerts!”

Marion seemed unconcerned, “We'll just need to get him on stage, oh, what should we introduce him as? The beautiful Beatrice?” 

Jeeves coughed like a sheep on the hillside. “Rosalind, might be more appropriate.” 

Feeling much like a bird in hand wanting to remind them of the two in the bush, I pleaded, “There must be someone better, really, I just hum a bit in the bath.” 

“Oh Bertie, just think of this as the biggest bathroom of them all,” Marion said as she dug her claws into my arm and began to drag me away. It seems she was keen on the ‘ding-dong, hurry along’ part of my musical career.

I gave my man one last glance, much how I imagined Odysseus must have looked at Penny before boarding the old trojan horse. Then Jeeves was gone, as Marion parted the crowd before her like the Red Sea. It goes to show what happens when you drink your Ovaltine. 

I was shuffled backstage, then up some wooden stairs. When learning about that unpleasantness in France one couldn't help but wonder how many of the quality felt, climbing up those last wooden stairs. I can now confidently say, I have some idea. 

“You know 'You're the Top’?” Marion asked.

I nodded.

“Good, I think they'll be up for some Cole Porter after Eddy.” She said, and then pulled me, cruelly, forward through the curtain. 

She waved at the band leader before marching upstage to the megaphone. “We've got an unexpected treat for you all tonight, the radiant Rosalind!” 

She jerked a hand in my direction. I toddled over as applause broke out in the crowd. 

The opening bars of the song began and I found myself glad that the opening verse was an apology as I began to stumble my way through it. 

That any sound at all came out of my mouth was surely one of those miraculous signs that I had read much of when studying for my Scripture Knowledge prize. I thought longingly of Jeremiah and scanned the crowd, searching for a suitably slimy pit that I might fling myself in.

Then I caught sight of Jeeves standing a little apart, and everything rather fell away. All at once it was as if it was just the two of us in our bathroom.

“And if this ditty, is not so pretty, at least it will tell you how great you are.” And I meant it.

After that, the rest of the wordplay began to flow out, like soda into an exquisitely made brandy and s.   


As the band finished its last note, I found I had not been given the bird. Nor was it simply hovering, held back by an insufficient supply of produce. Applause, truly enthusiastic applause, made itself known in the hall, which makes any bird feel rather gratified about his squawking, even if it hadn't been his idea to begin with. 

My confidence was such that when the bandmaster asked for the next number, I replied “‘It Had to be You’,” with only the slightest stutter. 

By the time my quarter of an hour was over, I was pleased to discover how much an audience enjoys songs they haven't already heard twice before. 

I wasn't quite ready to join Cousin Gussie, Aunt Julia, and their merry band yet. Who, last I heard, were making something of a splash in South America. Still I couldn't help but wonder whether my own mother might have had some hidden vandeville connection. These things often run in families, you know. Either that or she might have been looking at a picture of the Christy Minstrels the day I was born. 

As I tottered backstage, Marion gave me a friendly nudge even while she dragged another unfortunate to the block. 

Then I was free once again with my fellow revelers. Only this time my appearance prompted a smattering of whistles and cheers.

I could understand something of Haddock's additude after making a hit in the entertainment. Loo-loo-loo indeed. I was so braced I might have faced the displeasure of three Aunt Agatha's. 

“Hello.” I turned and saw it was the Mustache that greeted me thus.

“Hello.” I said back. 

“Excuse me, but when I heard you singing I couldn't help but feeling that we shared a soul. It might be that when I was a Roman centurion you were my faithful Greek scribe.”  It seemed to me this Melchett wanted to engage in a level of chumminess exceeding our level of acquaintance. 

“Just one of those feelings you get?” I asked.

“You feel it too? Our connection?” He grasped my hand. “My name is Anthony Cecil Hogmanay Melchett, and I do think I'll call you my little Chipmunk.” 

“Chipmunk?” 

“For your itsy-bitsy nose, darling. It does so remind me of one. Why, I'd love nothing more than whisk you away to my studio at once and smother you in rabbits.” 

“Yes, well, that is one I hear often.” I lied, for I had not heard that one often. 

“Oh, I can just imagine it now. The cardstock, a fine middleweight cream. The corners would be edged with golden detailing. At the bottom, inscribed in an elegant serif-font would be the epitaph: Hoppity, hoppity, hoppity, hoppity, hop.”

I felt weak, and not a little ill. My ancestors had faced French steel on the field of Agincourt, but had they faced overly-familiar mustachioed men quothing 'hoppity-hoppity-hop’ at them? I think it unlikely.

Yet, all the while the Mustache sat beguiling upon this pallid buster. It seemed to me no chamberdoor would be safe while it wandered this Bacchanal shore. 

“That's a Christopher Robin poem, isn't it?” said I.

“You recognized it? Why, I read one every night before I go to sleep, aren't they just darling?” He asked. 

I fell into divining, peering into that darkness as I rarely do, and deeply felt the cruelty that I should meet La Bassett's very own dear soulmate, only for them to be separated by continent and persuasion. It was enough to make one sigh and wonder about love altogether. 

“So, you're in the business of making cards? Have you been doing it very long?” I asked.

“Not terribly long, just since I left the army.” He said. 

“You were a soldier then, that must be a great difference in work.” 

“Oh, not really, I've found.” He said.

“Are herding kittens not dissimilar to herding men?” I asked.

“You see, I was in the strategic department and mostly I would just arrange the troop positions in whatever pattern pleased me best. Really, I look at it as more of an apprenticeship for my current work.” He grasped my hand tightly once again. “But let's not go on about our pasts, let's think now of our future. Dance with me!”   


There wasn't any time to say anything before I was whisked away in his arms. 

There is an undeniable thingness to passing an evening at someone's side. Even if the side belonged to a Gawd-help-us such as Melchett. There was something in the lights, the dancing, the music and the Mustache that made all my usual barriers lower. 

I wasn't prepared then when Melchett drew me aside and clasped one of my hands to his chest. “Chipmunk.” He whispered, his mustache quivered. Perhaps he wanted advice on his spots, but wasn't quite sure how to bring it up. 

“Chipmunk, I can stand it no longer. Will you marry me?” 

Reality dug its claws into the less than usually protected Wooster chest. A shiver wracked the spine. “I'm cold,” left the lips. 

“Of course, how careless of me! Let me get you something hot to drink.” He said, and I watched the back of his suit jacket recede into the crowd. I was left to contemplate my fate.

My star seems to have taken one look at that Mustache and decided that this unaltered sentinel stuff was for the birds. 

If Melchett's proposal was any judge, we'd be wed before tomorrow’s tea. Visions of altar rails like jail cell bars seemed to closing in on me, particularly the midsection.

“Oh Bertie!” As it turned out, it was Curly's arms twined about me that could be blamed for my sudden shortness of breath. 

“The most wonderful thing has happened! I just passed by Melchett and by some strange star,” No doubt mine, on its way to join up with Cousin Gussie in South America, “he recognized me. I thought I was sunk, but then he complimented my gown and gave me back the picture. He said he was a new man now that he had found love again. I can't imagine who the little fool is.” 

My mouth must have made some kind of noise at this, for Curly pulled back, awakened from his felicity.

“Oh Bertie.” He said, and shook his head as if he were now Nathan and I was David to be lectured on my lamb habit. “You looked at the Mustache, didn't you?”

He petted me as I thought on the mice and found no comfort in it. 

“Not to be insensitive, but is it possible, perhaps, to turn him down? It's not as if Ma and Pop Capulet are standing in the wings waiting to throw you to the wolves.”

I wagged a weary head at this, Americans knew nothing of the Code of Wooster's. “I need Jeeves. Have you seen him?” 

“Somewhere in Mantua, I think.” Curly said. 

I took this to mean somewhere by the mezzanine stairs and took my leave of Curly. 

I tore through the crowd, disrupting not a few petticoats, panniers, and pompadours. No Jeeves present anywhere. Something like panic began to flap wildly about my insides. 

A cough like sheep on a distant hillside made me pause in my hunt and nearly brought me to tears. 

“Please, sir. Allow me.” Jeeves said, and started to set my gown to right. I had full confidence that once I laid my predicament before him, he'd be able to set that to right too. 

“Melchett has given up the whole blackmailing wheeze, having been lead to the light by the love of good man. Only I'm that good man, Jeeves!” I cried. 

“I feared this was a possibility, sir.” Jeeves said as he straightened my belt, making it hang just so. 

“Can you think of any of your schemes?” I asked. 

“I did plan for something as a last resort, but I'm afraid it might offend your sensibilities.” Jeeves said as he checked my wig and found it firm. 

“If it will dish me out of the soup, I'll endure it. It's not the cosh is it? He was in the army, so you might have to take him unawares.” I am generally as peace-loving a rabbit as has ever nibbled lettuce by the babbling brook, but the hour was late. 

“I was thinking of something that had more to do with the psychology of individual. It will take me a moment to ready myself.” Jeeves said.

“Then do so with all haste.” I said and watched that noble head make its way through the crowd. Alone again, I felt like an undefended lamb that Melchett might pounce upon and shuffle off to Buffalo at any moment. 

“Chipmunk!” I turned to see Melchett approaching. “There you are my darling, here.” He handed me a cup of something hot. 

“Thank you.” I said, and stared into the cup’s depths, until Melchett gave a loud cough like a turkey that accidentally drowned itself in the rain. 

“Have you thought anything more about that question I posed to you?” He asked.

“Oh, I was always so useless at this sort of thing. My school masters really will tell you, they'd go around asking ‘what is  _ cuculus, _ Wooster?’ and I'd say back 'but we haven't learned any calculus.’ And so on, what." 

“Playing coy, I see. You just want to hear it again, don't you? Chipmunk—” he took my cup, throwing it over his shoulder, catching my hands with his. “Chipmunk, would you make me the happiest man in the world tonight?” 

“I would be glad if you unhanded my fiance.” A wonderfully familiar voice said, but as I turned I saw a face surfaced in the bushiest soup strainer I had ever laid eyes on. It took a few blinks to realize it was Jeeves behind it. 

“What do you mean? Who are you?” Melchett asked, but he seemed to be aware he was in the presence of a superior sort of being and couldn't quite meet Jeeves’s eyes.

“I am Ganymede Harelip. I had some business I needed to attend to, and I see someone took advantage of my absence.” Jeeves said. 

Melchett held my hands with only a nerveless grip, allowing me to escape to Jeeves's side. 

“Chipmunk never mentioned…” Melchett said.

“Are you accusing him of leading you on?” Jeeves asked, his great mustache bristling. Melchett melted like a piece of gorgonzola. With a few vague phrases, he disappeared, and I was a free man once more.

Jeeves turned to me, “Are you alright, sir?”

“I have both glass slippers firmly on, if that's what you mean, Jee-- Mr Harelip.” I corrected. My adventures have taught me that life waits until you wrap a rainbow around your shoulder to send the flood.

“I am relieved and gratified that your footwear is appropriately buckled, but I will admit my query more concerned a general feeling of well-being.” Jeeves said.

He had to raise his voice just a tad as the band struck up again and a cheerful deluge of revelers made their way to the dance floor. If I knew my Strauss from Mickey Mouse, it was a waltz. 

“As I’m not in a jail cell nor advertising soup cans, I would consider this a successful adventure. But perhaps we should dance, just in case he comes back. For the verisimilitude, if that's the word I want.” I said holding out a hopeful hand. 

“Verisimilitude is correct.” Even behind the mustache, I could see the slight pain given to him by  the omitted ‘sir’. Jeeves took the offered hand. “I agree it's wise to keep up appearances.” 

We were swept up into the crowd of swaying similar couples. In the safety of numbers I could ask Jeeves how he had known Melchett's weakness. 

“How did you know Melchett's weakness?" 

“I have read in a number of treatises on the natural world that bull walruses will often resolve disagreements based on the size of their respective tusks. When I learned of the powerful quality of Mr Melchett's upper lip, I took it upon myself to procure this object from a local costume shop. For if the need arose.” Jeeves motioned towards the mustache on his face, with only the slightest of shudders. 

I stared at my man, my heart filled with admiration and a certain thingness.

“Your psychology of the individual carries the day once more! Still one can't help but feel a certain something for the wretched Melchett.” Of course he was a Gawd-help-us and his mustache was a hazard to man, woman, and Wooster-kind, yet I could not help, having been his almost-fiance, some form of responsibility for his future happiness. Also, in my experience unattached fiances made a man sympathize with Damocles and the ever-hovering blade. 

“It might relieve you to know that I ran into a Mr Edwards.” Jeeves said.

“Edwards? Would that be the crooning bird whose heart is a sinking ship in a sounding sea?” 

“He implied something to that effect. I suggested that he should make Mr Melchett's acquaintance. I believe they might share a mutual taste in poetry.”

“They'll have an awful lot to talk about.” 

“People in similar circumstances often do.” 

I was just ready to wrap my rainbow round and thumb my nose at those clouds of gray, when I realized that not all was quite goosey-goosey yet. My agony was attended to, now appropriate succor was needed for my Jeeves.

“We should probably slide down the water pipe, so to speak. I shall not forget, that you defaced yourself to come to my aid.” 

“Your gratefulness is appreciated.” 

“Once we're safely in the pumpkin, I want you to get rid of that mustache.”

“Thank you, sir... But perhaps it can wait until the song is over.” Jeeves said. 

“For the verisimilitude.” I said.

“For the verisimilitude.” He agreed. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I imagined Curly's dress as the unholy combination of this:  
> http://collections.vam.ac.uk/item/O13861/evening-dress-worth-charles-frederick/  
> and whatever they put Emma Thompson in, in this Fry and Laurie sketch:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W9crgpsKj70&t=7s
> 
> So this was probably the most interesting journey of a thing I've written. It changed a lot. In my initial outline this was much more of a fusion with Major Star, my favorite Black Adder episode, and then as I was drafting it out I decided: this needs to be funnier. I proceeded to make it very silly. 
> 
> I didn't even tag Melchett in the fic since he's only really Melchett in name, on account of the changes I ended up making halfway through. Though the idea of him going on to just create ridiculous greeting cards spoke to me. Also don't try to math out how old he would be, please, it's in everyone's best interest. 
> 
> This fic feels to me closer to the level of silliness found in the later seasons of Jeeves and Wooster than the humor of the books. This mildly frustrated me as I wrote it, but I decided to just run with it. 
> 
> Since I was already unhappy with it, why not throw everything at the wall and see what sticks? You could probably tell I had just finished As You Like It as I was writing this and therefore was able to make the Rosalind/Ganymede reference. And also like suddenly insert The Raven allusions when talking about the Mustache, like use that Latin joke from the Merry Wives of Windsor, can I possibly make this sentence alliterative, a biblical reference or both? Go for it! Guys, the moment I looked up the Christopher Robin poem Wodehouse made fun of in Mating Season and it really was Hoppity (4x) hop, I nearly died. 
> 
> One thing I did like is giving Marion the chance of rather mild revenge against Bertie. Most of his refusals to act on someone's behalf are reasonable, but like your cousins are crazy harassing her, do something! Most of the Jeeves stories hold up, but in hindsight a man refusing to stand up for a woman being harassed by his own male relatives strikes such a sour note. 
> 
> Honestly, if you laughed once my effort was worth it, thank you so much for reading my rather rambling fic, and this rather rambling note besides!


End file.
